Until We Meet Again
by PrincessJade
Summary: My hypothetical ending to Season Seven. It's the end of the world, for real this time, and Buffy finally knows what she wants.


**Until We Meet Again**

There is no breeze tonight. No tease, no tickle, of the wind's fingertips through her hair. It's silent and hot. Oppressive. The heat rolls in, accumulating, ominous, expecting.

She's already expecting the end. They all are. She knows what is to come, yet what is not. And it frightens her to have this time limit, these last few hours before midnight, before it will all fall. And she will let it fall. Why? Because it is her duty, her destiny, her life's worth.

She should be happy, to finally get the peace that she'd been longing for all last year, but she's not. It's not what she wants anymore and she's mad. Angry. Hateful. Why now? She wonders, questions, rants, begs. Why now? When she'd only discovered two days ago what it felt like to be in love? Finally allowed herself to admit that she's in love, once to her heart and then twice to her mirrored-image. Why had it taken her this long? Why?

She knows there are many whys. Different scenario's. What-ifs. So many things she could have said. So many things she could have done. So many. Why is she always so stupid, so stubborn, so fond of the fucking river called de-Nile? And now it all comes back to bite her in the ass.

She deserves it all. Knows and feels she deserves it. Oh, and she knows so much now. She knows that love is a gift, and when it comes along, you are supposed to grab it, hold it, and cherish it while it's still there. She knows life is too short to wait for the next best thing, because if you do, you'll find life has completely passed you by in the process. These are the only lessons she wishes she'd learned years ago.

They are her only two regrets.

"_Miss. Summers."_

Light. Cream walls. The smell of sun and coffee. Sweat and hard work. A smile, one she recognizes from a distant memory, like a long lost childhood toy.

Just a fleeting fragment. One of books and wood and glasses. A tired brow and a well-practiced frown. And love, oh she feels love. Father-like pride. Joy and the desire to not let him, or anyone, down. More fragments, all quick and sharp and bright. Fragments of hugs and weapons and salty tears. Of loss and sadness and adoration. But oh, the love swamps her. Makes her feel just a bit more whole, more complete. Like a piece of the puzzle, that is her life, has been missing.

But then it's all gone.

And another smile. A cleared throat. A rustle of papers.

"You have been promoted. You shall receive your partner tomorrow, Detective."

Happiness.

"I'm proud of you." He says after a long moment and something inside of her twists, turns, and breaks.

'I'm your Watcher.'

And then it's that same smile, full of love and care. But just like everything else, it slips from her grasp before she can make sense of it. It slips, like sand through an hourglass. Like everything does now a day. Left with nothing, she can only say thank you and express her joy in a smile, a laugh, a firm handshake. But why does it seem so unsatisfactory. So formal and distant. When she feels hugs and kisses and celebration are more fitting? Why does she feel like this?

Why?

She cried yesterday, but today she has no more tears left. She only has resolve, a bittersweet hope, and a summer dress the color of blue corn silk, its texture as soft as roses. She knows she smells like sunshine and daisies and wine. Sweet, pink, and warm. She hopes it'll tempt him to taste and to savor, because she wants, more than anything, to taste and to savor him. She wants to get drunk off his sweetness, his essence, during these last few hours.

As she walks through the cemetery, she supposes she's cried more tears than the oceans of the world could hold. They all had, Willow and Xander and Anya and Giles and Dawn and herself. They spilled more secrets as well, and they forgave more sins than, she believes, God himself could ever forgive. She hopes he has forgiveness in him.

But then, she thinks, forgiveness was never the problem between the two of them. It was fear. Always had been.

He's waiting for her, like he knows she would come looking for him here. He's leaning against a tombstone, all black leather and sharp angles. An angel of death, but her angel of mercy. Funny how things turn out sometimes. He lifts a brow in greeting. He's gotten back some of his old swagger, adapted to the guilt that a soul brings, but for what now? When it's all useless in the end.

The end that's coming.

"Fancy seeing you here, pet." He murmurs. His voice like silk over water, fresh and cool. He's wearing blue underneath all the leather; it brightens his eyes and softens his face.

Her heart pounds.

Why couldn't she have seen this beauty a year ago?

_Rosemary. Clean hands. Soft cushions._

Home.

Her mother, all pliant gold and loving words. She always feels like she is going to lose her. She always worries she'll be left alone, but lately that feeling has only been growing stronger and it scares her.

Her mother just turned forty, young and beautiful and full of love. Why is she so afraid something will happen? There is nothing to worry about. Right?

'I have to go back in. They think they've found something.'

Warm coca, steamy and rich, in ceramic cups with little blue flowers that sit on their glass coffee table. Elegant. Their home has always been elegant. With art on the walls and sculptures on glossy pine tables.

She takes a sip, smiles as she unfolds her small frame against the floral- printed couch, and lets the liquid slide, slide, slide down her throat like wine. Her mother sits across from her, full of interest and care.

"I got a promotion."

A wide smile, followed by a screech from the hall. She winces and then finds a bundle of teenage limbs in her lap with a blanket of silky hair.

"Dawnie."

'Am... Am I even real?'

Another squeak. A tight hug.

"I'm so happy for you, Buffy."

"Thanks Dawn."

"You'll get a partner?" Her mother asks, all smiles. Smiles of sunny mornings and moonlit nights. Sunny. Sun. Sunshine.

Sunnydale.

She nods, presses a kiss to Dawn's forehead. Absently strokes her hair, gazing blankly at a glass sculpture of two lovers, their bodies' intertwined sinuously, red and blue swirls. Hot and cold. Dead and alive.

"Honey?"

"What? Sorry!" Forces a cheerful face. "Yeah. Yeah, I will."

"Do you want to patrol?" He asks her, unsure of what to do, like an actor who forgot his lines. He smiles slightly and moves closer. He's the moth and she's the flame. The flame that draws him in. Draws him in to an inevitable death.

"No." She shakes her head, moves closer to him as well. Then smiles, tilts her head back to gaze at the stars. The wind blows harder, grabs strands of her hair and sends them dancing. "The sky...it's beautiful."

He watches her, drinks her in. She's so damn pretty in that summer dress that he can't see anything but her. His vision's eternally tainted blue and gold and green.

"Beautiful. It is." His voice is soft and so is his mouth, and she knows he's not talking about the sky. But maybe she wasn't really either. Her lips melt into a grin and she makes sure it's sweet. She knows he always dreamed of sweet, wanted it and asked for it during those few months of their illicit affair. But she denied him, denied him everything.

Now she wants to give him candy and sugar and honey. Wants to give him everything and deny him nothing. Medicine to heal the pain.

"Walk with me?" She extends her hand, so small and dainty, but they both know the power it holds. Her eyes, the palest green, are transparent and warm. "Please?"

"Of course." He can never deny her. So he takes her offered hand, and his heart trips and falls into an ocean of hope as her fingers twine through his, just like her scent, vanilla and peaches, twines through his senses.

She can tell he's anxious, wary, and even suspicious. And she doesn't blame him. As they walk in comfortable silence, like many of those endless nights, he waits for the bottom to drop because he knows it always does. She knows it usually does too, but not this time. She promises herself. Promises him.

She stops, turns and links their other hands.

"Spike."

Her voice is impossibly soft; it swirls around him like a wisp of smoke. Oh, she wants to cry at the look that crosses his face. The hope that blooms, like a rose, and then withers into insecurity.

He hates that his heart never learns. That it still yearns for something as pure as her love, when it belongs to something as vile as himself. He hates, more than anything, that it still harbors hope deep within its very core, where his soul burns.

And she hates that she is the cause of this. Hates that she hurt this man. This beautiful, beautiful, man. Not a monster. Never a monster. She wants to make up for every sarcastic dig, every taunt, and every fist. But then she knows she never could. There are too many and she doesn't have the luxury of timeless nights. She only has now.

She'll take what she can get and run with it.

_She's late._

Oh, she's so late. Hair flows behind her, messy and windblown, as she enters the office. She wears a deep crimson strappy top, like blood spilled in her dreams, and jeans, dark and deep. The color despair. She doesn't know why she thinks that, knows that. Perhaps she's seen that color before, but she's not sure.

She's not sure of much these days.

"You're late." Harris observes. He's munching on a donut. Sets it down, gives her a warm smile.

'I don't know what I'd do...without you and Wi...'

"Better hurry up, Summers. The G-man's not very patient."

Smiles back. "I know. I've got three minutes."

A breeze of gold and rose. Warm and soft. "Here, sweetheart. You look like you could use some coffee."

"Thanks." Takes the steaming mug in one hand and reaches out for an affectionate stroke to the beautiful Mrs. Harris's belly with the other. The woman beams at the touch, her grin contagious. "Anya, shouldn't you be home?"

'Squish, squish, squish! Guys have been running roughshod over you for years. Torturing that perky little ticker. Aren't you sick of it? Don't you wish guys like that-'

A snort and a wave of a hand. "Now you sound like Xander. Why does everyone think pregnancy makes a girl delicate?"

"Honey..."

"Don't you Honey me...Honey." Anya's gold eyes narrow.

A laugh and a girlish giggle. A glow surfaces beneath the watercolor green of her eyes, tinting them a bewitching hazel. She feels warm affection for both of them. Likes the feeling. "Just don't work yourself too hard, Anya."

They both smile. Anya strokes Xander's hair for a moment and he strokes her hand in response. They both open their mouths to reply. Full of love.

"I won't."

"She won't."

A flash. A quick fragment. A faded picture. An ivory gown. Laughing. Gold hair curled. Black and white. A sister's affection. Green dresses, white flowers, an empty hall. Then jealously. Despair. Sadness. A laugh, an awkward pause, and a blurred figure cloaked in black.

She never saw their wedding.

She frowns.

But then it's gone, instantaneously, swifter than a blink of an eye. But the feelings remain. All of them.

Comfort. Love. Pride. Sadness. Loss. Oh, there is much loss.

And she feels just a bit more complete, even as she knows parts of her are still missing. Their absence hurts more now. More than ever. She doesn't know why that is either.

"Good." Her frown fades briefly into a sunny grin, then she hurries away.

She's late.

"I--Spike, I--"

He doesn't speak, he only watches. Lets her reach up, caress his jaw and look deep into his eyes. So deep, deeper than she ever allowed. Soft, gentle, loving. His lashes flutter, brush against the tender skin beneath his eye, and his lips curve.

Sweetness.

It hurts and it liberates all at the same time. And he wants to melt, like wax, beneath her palm. Let her mold him into the man she wants. The man she desires. He doesn't realize that he already is.

She's looking for words, for explanations, and she's floundering. Like a fish out of water. He always had the words. She never did. His brow arches and he understands that she's searching, for what words he does not know, but he smiles with encouragement all the same.

"Spike."

"Slayer?"

She blinks back tears and laughs, tries to look astringent. "Don't call me that. Buffy. Call me Buffy, so I know you know who I am."

"I always know who you are, Buffy." A sad smile. Like a forgotten wedding dress, moth-eaten and dusty, pressed into a trunk in the attic corner. He finally touches her, lets his fingers brush a stray tear away, allowing them to linger briefly across the delicate slope of her cheek. "Why are you crying, sweetling."

Oh, his face breaks her heart.

"Because--" She's floundering again, and she hates it. "Because it's the...the end of the world, Spike. I have to end the world. It's our only hope."

They both think of the First and it's army, millions of Turok-Hans, and know they are no match for the enemy. How can they be? A handful of inexperienced girls, a gay-redemption-seeking villain, a carpenter, an ex- to the second-vengeance demon, a Key, a Watcher, a powerful witch, two ensouled vampires, and one Slayer. The odds, for a direct win, are stacked impossibly high against them. She knows it and he knows it.

There is no use lying to one another.

"S'alright. You have to." He pauses, looks for a positive view. "'Sides, you'll rid the world of evil beasties like me. Everything will be right again." He sees her stricken face, jumps to conclusions. "Pet, the world will be reborn. The good will be reborn. You'll be reborn. Your pals too. You'll see them again, Buffy."

His voice is reassuring, so smooth, so caring, and she believes him. She always believed him on the inside, no matter what she projected outwardly.

"What about you?"

"Don't know. I suppose I'll be gone, like I should have been centuries ago. It doesn't matter." He shrugs, gives her a boyish grin. But his eyes are sad. "I hurt the girl."

She strokes his face. "But the girl hurt the boy as well."

"The boy hurt her more."

She shakes her head and the tears pour forth, wet and shiny. Her hand trembles and he reaches up, caresses her fingers.

"No. No." A brave sniffle and she tries to pull back her despair. Why can't she find the words? "It's not fair."

He tilts his head in question. "What's not fair? Why are you crying, love?"

Oh, his voice. It only makes the tears come faster, lonely translucent drops that slide down her face. He catches every single one with the pads of his fingers, then tips her face upward. He hates it when she cries. Makes him feel helpless.

A helpless man.

"Because...because...you'll be gone."

Then there is a smirk, a lewd curl of his lips, and a dark glimmer of something in his gaze. But it's only an echo of the Spike long ago. His hands are gentle.

"You planning on missing me, pet? Now, why are you going to go around missing a demon?" His face changes into one of disgust, one of self- loathing. "I'm nothing, love. Nothing. 'Sides, lets not delude ourselves, you won't even remember me. Isn't that a good thing? What you always wanted? To forget me?"

He taunts, but it's hollow on the inside. She can tell, his hopeful eyes give him away. He was always an open book to her. Always.

"No! Never." Oh, where are the words? She hits him in the chest. Her vision is blurred. The lines around his mouth soften and he grabs her wrists with a strong, yet gentle grip.

He's afraid to touch her any rougher. Afraid of the memories it brings.

"Don't cry over me. I'm not worth it."

"You are! You are...because...God, Spike--" She's still floundering, but she's fighting back now. Kicking. Screaming. Searching. "Because I'm in love with you! Don't you get it? I love you, you---you selfish bastard! That's why it's unfair!"

She slams her hands into his sternum, pushes him back into a crypt wall. Then she's following him, weeping and pushing herself closer, as close as she can physically get. Presses her lips to his forehead, then slides them down over his closed lids. She tastes salt and pulls back.

He's crying. Big, beautiful, eyes spill tears for her. For himself. For them. His hand quivers when it touches her cheek and their lips, at last, meet in an ocean of tears. Soft. Yielding. Passionate. A slow burn, one that grows in the center of her belly. Familiar, yet different.

Heaven. Oh, it's heaven. Truly heaven.

"Oh, Buffy. My sweet..." He fumbles, searching. He's stunned. Never thought in a million years that she'd ever return his feelings. Oh, the pleasure. The warmth. His heart expands, contracts, then fills again with love.

And her name falls from his lips like magic. Stronger than anything Willow ever conjured up. She's no longer floundering, instead she's floating, flying, soaring. A dam deep within herself breaks, shatters, crumbles and the words come rushing forth.

"Love you. I love you so much. I'm sorry." She apologizes in whispered tones. Sweetness. Medicine to heal them. She kisses his skin with a hot, open mouth. "I was so afraid before. So ignorant. Couldn't see. Wouldn't let myself see. And I'm so sorry for that. So, so sorry. I love you."

She's found the words, and this time he's the one left speechless. He's the one left floundering.

_"You're late, Miss. Summers." Ms. Rosenberg says, tries to glare._

'See? This is my resolve face.'

She's the secretary for Mr. Giles, but she's also her new, steadily becoming, close friend. Willow ditches the professionalism and leans over, face dreamy, and giggles instead.

The sound reminds her of libraries and goldfish and late night phone calls.

"Look what Tara bought for me."

'You didn't come back wrong.'

She shakes off her thoughts and smiles sweetly, then dips her nose into the bud of a pale peach-colored rose. "Aww, how romantic. Those are beautiful, Will."

"Aren't they? We're having our fourth date tonight. Do you think there will be some...after-date-sex?"

She laughs and her friend blushes deeper than the dark russet of her hair. "I don't know. But you call me and tell me all about it if it does."

"Will do."

She rushes for the door. Pauses. Turns back. "Did you...catch a glimpse of my partner?"

"Oh yes. He's a major hottie."

A brow rises. "He?"

Willow shrugs in defense. Grins wickedly. She looks like an Irish pixie suddenly, with her red hair and dark green eyes. "Being gay doesn't mean I lack the ability to tell whether the opposite sex is hot or not."

"Call me later." She laughs again, a warm smile and sparkling eyes, and then slips inside the office door.

She pushes him down, onto his back, in the sweet smelling grass. They lie beneath a willow tree, hidden in their own romantic world. The stars have become their candlelight, the grass their bed, the wind their orchestra, and the joining of lips, cherry red and the palest ivory, their wine.

"I love this spot, right here. You see."

She presses a kiss to the dip beneath his collarbone while she undresses him tenderly. He doesn't speak, only watches her in something close to rapture. His fingers stroke the warm flesh of her arm and he shudders when her pink, moist tongue writes prose, more beautiful than Shakespeare himself, into his skin.

"See." Licks. "You shudder..." Sighs. "...Just...like..." Gasps. "That."

He's drowning, helpless beneath the tide of her mouth. Her hands. Her voice. Her words. She says things he's only heard in his dreams, things he could only hope for in slumber, and they're sweeter than anything he ever imagined could be.

"I love these dips and curves, all these sharp angles. Like a cat. You're so beautiful. So beautiful that the Angels are jealous, Spike. They wish you were there's. They're angry because you're mine. All mine." She works her way downward, fingers kneading, stroking, caressing. "Mine."

"Yours. Always yours." He babbles, arches back when her mouth closes over him, and digs his fingers into her hair. Long and golden and soft. She brings him to a fast climax with her mouth and hand. He's gasping with pleasure, but he tugs, desperately pulling her away. She sits back, confused. Wonders if she's done something wrong.

He reads her easily by the slight tremble of her lip. He's quick to reassure her with a smile, a look, and a swirl of his fingers across the back of her neck.

"No. No. Not yet. My sweet." He glides a thumb gently of her wet, ripe, mouth. "I want to make love to you."

"_You're late, Miss. Summers."_

"I know. I'm sorry." She apologizes, clasps her hands together nervously while Mr. Giles leans against his desk, takes a slow sip of his coffee.

He cleans his glasses on the front of his pants, sighs and puts them back on. "Let's try and not make this a habit, shall we?"

"Yes, Sir." Ducks her head, embarrassed.

"Small little thing." A saucy comment. British and cocky. A low voice, dangerous, but oddly pleasant.

'What happens on Saturday?'

'I kill you.'

She turns and glares immediately at the man standing before her. It's reflexive, natural, like she is born to do it.

He's lounging on a stool in the corner of the room with his legs spread, arms resting against his knees, and his Doc Martin's propped up on an end table. Although, he has some manners because he stands in greeting. Their eyes meet.

Deep blue. The color of her jeans. The color of despair.

'The way I feel about you...is real.'

"Elizabeth Summers this is your partner, William Giles." The older man smiles, affectionately walks over and wraps an arm around him. "My son."

'Ready Randy.'

'Ready Joan.'

"Your son?" She asks, surprised. "I didn't know you had a son, Sir."

"Yeah, well he does. What of it?" The snap in William's voice has her glaring at him again. Rude bastard, she thinks. He glares right back, but his face softens when he looks toward his father. "Da, maybe I should just work alone. Police work in England can't be all that different from Police work in the States--"

"Nonsense. You two are assigned to work with one another. Now get out."

'Stop that right now! I can hear the smacking.'

Gives them both a severe look.

"But Da..."

A raised brow in reply ends the discussion.

With smoky, emerald eyes, she sucks the tip of his thumb between her teeth, teases it with her tongue, and then releases it with a 'pop'. He shudders, body vibrates like a plucked guitar string. Oh, he needs her, wants her.

"Let me make love to you."

She pouts, gives him a minx's smile. One that bewitches. "But I'm not done...yet."

"Later." He promises, pulls her up his body effortlessly. She's so small, so tiny, so light. But fits him to perfection. Matches him strength for strength, speed for speed, mind for mind. Bloody perfection. He angles her hips.

"Just...let...me." He's begging and he knows it.

She hesitates slightly, wants to explore him. Relearn his body; memorize every contour, every line, and every curve. Wants to draw a map of him on the paper of her mind. But he's pleading, eyes full of love, and she wonders why she ever denied herself this. Why she ever denied herself him.

If she'd only known he'd be her heaven.

With slow deliberate movements, she takes him in, inch by inch, into her heat. When at last he is embedded to the hilt, they both gasp at the pleasure, at the beauty of it all.

"Oh...oh." Beautiful. So beautiful. She thinks she'll weep. Then he moves her hips forward and he circles his beneath, and she does weep. Kisses him slowly, lets him taste her tears.

"My beautiful, beautiful, White Queen. My goddess. My heart. God, love you." He moves her higher, whispers down her pretty little neck until he reaches the underside of her breast. Nibbles and traces the generous soft curves. She smells of violets and roses and sunshine. And there, in the garden of her flesh, he imprints his words.

Marks her with his lips, his love, and his devotion.

Then he shifts, hits the spot only he can find, and she moves with him. Rides the wave of his movements with expertise and lets him bring them a slow rise into oblivion.

_They stand outside the police station. Side by side in silence. He's smoking and she's playing with a string on her shirt._

"So?"

He questions, lets it hang tensely in the air, and fidgets slightly. She looks around. They both wonder how they're going to work together. The feeling is slightly familiar. Strikes up bitter hate and dangerous lust.

'I hate you.'

'And I'm all you've got.'

"Do you want to patrol?" He offers, disliking her silence. She shrugs.

"I guess. It's our job." Her sarcasm cuts, sharp and deadly. He looks at her then, studies her profile.

She's beautiful. He gives her that. Likes how her nose, small and dainty, turns upward at the tip. He likes the gentle slope of her cheeks, the long column of her neck, the sharp edges of her collarbone. Then thinks, maybe she's too skinny.

But still beautiful.

"You didn't wear your uniform." He observes. She throws him a haughty look and tosses her reply back without missing a beat.

"Neither did you. Your point?"

"My sodding point is--bloody hell, do I have to have a point?" Tosses his cigarette angrily to the ground, stomps on it a bit for good measure. "Just trying to make bleedin' conversation. But no, you are making it impossible..."

Her eyes glaze over when the voices speak again. They're louder and this time she sees things. Colors and shapes. It's like she's watching a movie, because there's two women chained to a wall, one dark and sinister, the other...well...god, the other one looks like her. And then a swirl of leather, she watches a man that paces back and forth, then turns abruptly, face contorted in anger. But she hears despair and bitter longing in his voice.

'And YOU wouldn't be able to touch me. Because this...with you...is wrong. I know that...I'm not a complete idiot.'

She's surprised to see the visage of William, but then the vision fades away. Slowly and softly, until it's just a blurred cloud in her mind.

She looks over at him, beside her, with an unreadable look on her face. Sees the sun slant downward. It bathes him in light and something within herself melts, like this is something she'd only seen once, him in the sun. Like it was something she dreamed about, something she wished for at night.

It takes her breath away.

"I'm sorry." She says finally.

He nods. "Okay." He looks at her again, tilts his head to the side. He muses, "Such a little thing. Guess I'll be the strength of this team, and you the brains."

Her eyes go wide, then narrow. He catches the backward movement of her arm out of the corner of his eye, so he's prepared, and blocks the right hook she aims for his jaw.

"Whoa, whoa. Okay, then. I take that back." He's surprised at her strength, at her technique.

'I'm not your girl.' Anger. Disgust. Violence.

They both freeze, eyes glaze over in surprise. Her fist relaxes inside his hand, then her shoulders. She looks up at him, quizzical. He relaxes too and lets her go.

"Did you...did you see that?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

He studies her. She studies him.

"Lets get some coffee."

"Why?"

"Because...that was bloody weird...and we..." He searches for more words, but she doesn't need any.

"Okay."

"Right then."

He heads for the cop car parked in front of them, but she grabs his arm. His skin warm, tender, and it glows a pale gold in the morning light. Her breath catches again.

"I want to walk...in the sun."

"I'm scared." She whispers into his chest. They're curled around one another, her ear pressed over his silent heart. It doesn't bother her that it doesn't beat. She doesn't think it ever really did.

"Don't be." He draws designs into her back. Writes 'I love you' with a big heart. She smiles, kisses the curves of his pectoral.

"I love you too." He still shudders when he hears it. He knows he'll never get used to hearing it. He'll never even get the chance to get used to it.

He wonders, when you go to hell, if you retain your memories. Thinks about asking Angel, but knows there isn't the time. Every last second he has, he wants to spend it with her.

He wants to die right by her side.

"I wonder what hell will be like." He murmurs into her hair, says it in such an accent that it strikes her heart with a deadly accuracy.

"You won't go to hell." She replies with fierce determination. It warms him a bit, but just the edges of his heart. He knows the truth.

"Alright. Where will I go then?" He'll play her game. Wish for things they both want. Even if he knows the impossibility of them.

"With me. You're soul will come with me."

"It will?"

"Yes." She rolls them over, loves the feel of him on top of her, covering her, protecting her. She presses his face to her neck, fingers wrapped tightly in his hair. "Because we'll be linked."

He hesitates. She feels him hesitate. She urges, voice gentle and loving. "Do it, Spike. I want you to do it."

So he does, because he can never deny her. Sinks his fangs into her soft flesh and drinks deep from the chalice of her neck. Her sweet nectar. He lets his mind wander, briefly, down the same path as hers wandered. Lets himself hope, for just this moment, that maybe they will be together despite everything. That his soul will, like she says, stay with her.

He pulls back, licks her wound like a cat licks his saucer clean, and whispers, "Mine."

She leans up; a smile with the curve of her pretty little mouth, and then bites hard into the side of his neck. He bleeds, dark, red, borrowed blood, and she licks it up, swallows the flow of life. It fills her stomach, leaves it's taste across her tongue. Sweet and tangy. She thinks she kind of likes it, so she sucks a bit harder.

For a moment his mind doubts her, doesn't believe she'll return the claim, and he thinks this is the bottom. The bottom has fallen. But then she whispers back, like a prayer, "Mine."

They are completed. Linked. It's like heaven and sunshine and children and white-picket fences all rolled into one.

"We'll find each other. Somehow...and hey, I've died twice, and I still keep coming back." Attempts to make him smile, but her eyes are capacious and sad. For him, it's like drowning in a deep sea of green molten lava. It burns and consumes.

Like their love.

"Yes, you do." He tells her, his voice so low that she almost mistakes it for an undertone of the wind. He traces her quickly closing wound with the tips of his fingers, feather-light. "You always come back. It's bloody amazing."

Then she kisses his mouth, tender and sweet. "See? We'll meet again. I promise."

And this time he believes her.

_"Do believe in reincarnation?" She asks him in a hushed murmur. She leans over the small wooden table of a local diner so she can be heard. He mimics her movements and dips his head, so they're eye to eye._

"Don't know, pet. Never really thought about it." He pauses, tilts his head to the side. She's found he does that a lot. It's almost endearing. "Do you think...that's what...this is?"

They haven't quite put a name to the visions yet.

"Maybe? Have you ever had a vision before today?"

"Dreams. I've only had dreams." He fiddles with the edges of a napkin and looks around the table.

"What were they about?" He shrugs and scratches the back of his bleached head. She realizes he's nervous. Reaches out and brushes her knuckles against his. "It's okay. You can tell me."

"Well, sometimes I see a dark-haired woman. We're always in exotic places. Like Paris, Rome, Greece, Hawaii, Haiti. Places like that. But I usually dream about the blonde girl, but her--your-- face has always been blurred, until today. We fight or argue. Sometimes I save you from...monsters. And then sometimes...well we...um--"

"We what?"

He blushes, the edges of his ears tinted rose. "Uh...shag?"

"Oh." She blushes too, a golden hue, and lets out a nervous sound. "Well, I've never had dreams. I mostly just hear voices. Sometimes I see fragments of things, like shapes and colors."

"I've never heard voices before. Only today. My dreams are always mute. Like watching an old picture film." He watches her, the way her face shifts and her eyes change colors. Wants to tell her she's beautiful, gorgeous, amazing. But he can't find the words, can't find the courage.

"Do you think...?" She lets her question trail off, unsure of what exactly she's asking, and just grips his hand instead. It warms something deep within.

'Tell me you love me.' Steps forward, wearing all black. Hair's tied back neatly.

'I love you. You know I do.' Blue eyes, honest, loving, surprised.

'Tell me you want me.' Sadness. Need.

'I always want you.' Love. Desire. Happiness. Hope.

Then the vision's gone again and they're left staring at one another. She pulls him closer. Her eyes a heavy, suffocating green. His heart speeds up at the simple nearness of her. She smells like violets and vanilla and strawberries. A mixture of all things heavenly.

An ironic smile, twisted and sharp. "I think I understand how this works now."

"Do you now, pet?"

She slides her hands up his chest and nods her head, gives him a reassuring smile. The dimples above the upturned corners of her mouth entrance him and the way her hands mold to his body like water, liquid and smooth, send his mind spinning. He's enthralled.

A dark alley, a young girl, a dangerous man.

She hooks her hands, limbs loose and velvet soft, behind his head. She tips her chin, sharp and aristocratic, up and closes her eyes. Images flicker behind her closed lids, the colors faded, under a film of sepia.

A school, an equal fight, and a mother with an axe.

He dips a hand into the mass of hair, spun gold, rich and precious. He thinks she's like Rapunzel or Goldilocks or Sleeping Beauty. A fairy-tale Queen. A Greek nymph or a mischievous woodland sprite. Something equally mythical and untouched.

A tentative alliance, partners, distrust, and the saving of the world.

When at last, she presses her lips to his, a shaky meeting of mouths. Soft, shuddering, yielding. Sighs. Murmurs. Heaven. Both can almost swear they hear the Angels sing.

Moonlight and sweat and the slip and slide of flesh against flesh. The pleasure is immense. The hatred strong. But the love, it burns past all reason, in the deepest recess of the heart.

And she thinks before it all, the shapes, the colors, the scents, the voices, becomes too overwhelming, that she's complete. She's finally complete. She's found the missing piece of her soul.

They surface from the ocean of images, breathless and gasping, but cleansed and whole. She pulls away and they simply stare, the thin line between reality and fantasy is still heavy and blurred. Tears, shiny and damp, slip down their cheeks. They don't wipe them away, instead, they allow them to glide slowly downward, like a waltz, and leave their translucent paths across smooth planes of warm flesh.

Thud. Thud-thud. Thud. Thud-thud.

Amazing. The sound of two beating hearts. She reaches out, spreads her minute palm over his ribcage, and drinks him in. He's still beautiful. A British Adonis.

"Buffy?" A trembling hand pushes back her hair, the tips of his fingers brush across her temple. His voice is calm, soothing, like a warm bath on a cold night or a good book under a shady tree, and she wants to wrap herself in its tenderness.

Wants to be protected.

"Spike?"

To him, her voice is the sound of disbelief, of hope, of love and a million more adjectives and nouns in which he can never put a name too. Never hope to. He blinks, sooty lashes wet from crying, and dares to ask, "Is it...is it you?"

Their eyes meet, the answer held in the depths of her gaze, and it seems like time stops, suspends itself above them.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick--

Then she's sobbing and he's sobbing too. Tears of disbelief. She meets his lips half way and their mouths melt together, burn to a scorching heat, then shudder open.

She cries into the kiss, a loving whimper. "I promised. I told you. See?"

She gasps, their tongues caressing. Hands, needful, clutch fists of his hair, blonde and baby soft. It's the same. He feels blessedly the same and the tears come harder.

"Do you? Do you believe me now?"

"I've always believed you, love."

Fire, blood, and death.

It surrounds, engulfs, and devours. They're in the basement and the carnage is everywhere. Twisted limbs of brave young girls, snapped necks of demons, and the artistic designs of spilled innards. Oh, and the blood. There is so much blood. Xander's and Anya's and Dawn's and Giles's. It stains the dirt floor. But hers won't. Instead, Hell will swallow her whole.

There is no time to grieve.

She can't tell Anya's lifeless face that she was appreciated and a valued friend, that her blunt humor was endearing. She can't kiss Dawn's bloody forehead, push back her beautiful hair of silk and tell her she was such a brave little girl, such a wonderful loving sister. She can't whisper old jokes as she disentangles Xander's twisted body and apologize for never being able to love him as he sometimes wished. And she can't say a proper daughter's goodbye to the only father she's ever really known, ever really wanted to know.

There is no time.

Willow sits, eyes black and powerful, with her head thrown back, holding the hellmouth open. She cries blood for her young lover, Kennedy, even as she chants sable incantations in Latin. Doesn't want to channel this dark power, her gift and her curse. Instead, she wants to grieve, like Buffy does, and hide. Curl herself up into a ball and curse the Powers for taking Kennedy. For taking Tara. For taking everyone she loves. But she can't. Knows she can't.

Because she's forever the loyal friend. The sidekick to the brave warrior.

'Love you, Wills.' The Slayer tells the witch and hears the same sentiment returned telepathically. She stores it away in her heart, where study nights, popcorn and movies, and silly lunch table laughs are hidden. Places it just outside of the cavern she has tucked every memory of Spike into.

He's protected by the most precious part, the part where her soul thrives.

She doesn't realize she's crying until he's beside her, kissing away the tears. He grips her desperately around the waist and pulls her to him.

"Take me with you." He pleads, kisses her fiercely. "Baby, take me."

"Okay, okay." She agrees, sinks into the softness of his mouth and finds his hands with her own. They move backward, step by step. She feels the edge, tilts back and smiles. "We'll meet again. I promise. And I'm a girl that keeps her promises."

His eyes are clear and dry, but his mouth is grim. He wants to drink her in, imprint her in his mind, for the hope Hell allows memories. Just to be safe, because he's still searching for the bottom.

He thinks it might be upon them soon. Although, he won't tell her that.

"I know...you always do." He smiles, despite his doubts, and they kiss their last kiss. Their last taste of heaven. Then he molds her body to his, stares deep into her eyes, and lets her tip them back over the edge.

They fall, weightless and quick, in a burning ocean of fiery reds and oranges. It lights up her face, illuminates her hair into a mass of swirling white. She's so beautiful, even in Hell.

Her face is the last thing he sees before it all begins to fade.

Together, in the blackness, wrapped around each other, he waits for the bottom, their end, and she waits for the top, their salvation. The bottom never comes. Neither does the top. Instead, there is only that damned space in between.

Purgatory.

The End


End file.
